


Dazed and Confused

by ellydash



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-01
Updated: 2011-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-16 00:38:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellydash/pseuds/ellydash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Puck and Sam get stoned. They make some kickass decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dazed and Confused

  
All it takes for Puck to convince Sam is simple logic. 

  
He’s seriously awesome at logic. It makes sense, because he’s an all-around awesome guy. (Puck may not be the sharpest donut in the bag, but he gets it that there’s a difference between being  _good_  at things, like Rachel is, and just being  _awesome_  in general. Honestly, the second one’s way more useful.)

  
“Schue’s whole speech was about drinking,” he points out, unwrapping the brownie, breaking off half. “He didn’t say anything about getting stoned. Besides, dude, everyone knows that weed’s good for you. It’s like vitamins, or fucking. It gives you endorphins.” The secret to creating awesome logic, Puck knows, is throwing in a couple of pricy words here and there, even if you aren’t sure exactly what they mean or how to use them.

  
Sam shrugs, and sits next to Puck on the bed, holding out his hand for the brownie piece. “Yeah, I guess that sounds okay. Let’s do this. Where’d you get the stuff, anyway? You got a hookup?”

  
Puck forgets, sometimes, that Sam’s still kind of new. “Mr. Ryerson. We started this deal where I go over to his place a couple times a month and watch old episodes of  _America’s Next Top Model_  with him, and he touches the top of my head a lot and I drink tea out of these little cups. It’s kind of weird, and sometimes he wants me to feed his dolls, but the guy’s got a primo hash stash, so you know, whatever.” He doesn’t add that he’s kind of looking forward to seeing how Cycle 6 turns out. That Jade chick is  _insane_ , and also seriously freaking hot; Puck’s favorite combination. “Go ahead, eat it.”

  
It’s the easiest way for Puck to get baked at home, through food. Like, it’d be nice to just sit around his room and hotbox it, but the smell gets into things, and his mom still does his laundry (he’s gonna milk that laundry thing for as long as possible, because Noah Puckerman knows a sweet deal when he’s got one). At least with the brownies and cookies, there’s no evidence, so he can just chill out and listen to some Zeppelin and let his brain bounce all over the inside of his skull, without having to worry about getting caught. 

  
Sam’s chewing the brownie intensely, like it’s his job or something. “I can’t believe I’m eating this,” he says, around the mouthful of chocolate. “Man, I can’t believe it. I haven’t eaten a brownie in, like, forever. This better be worth it.”

  
Puck rolls his eyes, pops the other half in his mouth. If Sam starts whining about some lame bullshit like  _calories_ , he’s gonna start regretting inviting the guy over in the first place. Lauren never complains about that stuff. The last time they’d gotten stoned together, she’d let him rest his head on her tits and he even got to kind of  _mouth_  at them, which was badass, except for the part where he’d drooled on her shirt and she’d pushed him off. Right now, though, that’s sounding way better than listening to Sam drag him down before he’s even up and off.

  
“Hand me that remote,” he mutters, swallowing. There’s some String Cheese Incident in the CD player, one of their early albums. Maybe that’ll help kickstart the mellow. Get Sam to shut that huge mouth of his. 

  
It’s really, really pink today, Sam’s mouth. It’s the color of Mr. Ryerson’s tea.

  
___

 

One minute, Sam’s protesting that he doesn’t feel anything, maybe he should eat more or maybe there’s something wrong with Mr. Ryerson’s product, and then all of a sudden he’s staring at the wall next to Puck’s bed and saying, “Oh. Oh, man, what if this thing has  _moving parts_.”

  
Puck can’t stop laughing for, like, a hour. It’s not really that funny, but the look on Sam’s face is pretty much his new favorite thing, all that happy awe like someone’s told Sam he's got an all-expenses paid vacation to the planet from  _Avatar_.

  
___

 

“How do they get the apples inside the Apple Jacks?” Puck wants to know, although the question might still be inside his head. He’s not sure if he said it out loud. The words are definitely outside, though. Out in the room. They really happened. Probably.

  
They’re lying on the narrow bed together, the two of them, staring up at the ceiling. Those solar system stickers Puck put up there as a kid are still stuck, all faded from too much afternoon light, but he can make out Saturn’s rings. In the corner, there’s Pluto, from back before it got fired from being a planet. 

  
“Dude,” Sam says, slowly. “Dude. Artoo knew  _everything_  the whole time. Like, when he met Luke in _A New Hope_ , he was probably all, beep beep, okay, kid, I knew your dad and your mom and your grandma. Except we didn’t know, because he said all of that in robot language. It’s this major. Uh. What’s the word. Tragedy.”

  
“What are you  _talking_  about,” Puck manages, turning his head. “Who the fuck is Artoo?”

  
Sam takes what feels like forever to answer the question. “What’s wrong with you, Puckerman? He’s only, like, the most kickass robot in the history of sci-fi cinema. R2D2? Come  _on_.”

  
Seriously, Evans is so freaking lucky he hit the good looks jackpot, otherwise he’d be an even bigger outcast than Rachel. Yeah, the original  _Star Wars_  is pretty good and all, but mostly because Princess Leia obviously isn’t wearing a bra and then things explode, not because of some robot. “You gotta learn to stop saying that kind of stuff. People are gonna figure it out that you’re a total dork, and then I can’t hang with you anymore without getting dork smell all over me.” 

  
Sam actually smells kind of nice, though. Like shampoo. Maybe oranges. Not like a dork at all. 

  
“Santana said that.” Sam rolls on his side, taking forever, facing Puck. “About keeping my mouth shut. Except I think she said ‘novelty candy-lips’ instead. What  _is_  it with you and her about the mouth stuff, anyway? You’re both obsessed or something. I mean, I’m hot. I get it. But it’s kinda old already.”

  
Puck tries to figure out what he’s just heard. Did Sam just– ? “I’m not obsessed with your mouth, dude,” he says. His mind’s moving super slow. “I mean, I don’t know about Santana, she’s got her own thing, but I’m not. Obsessed.”

  
“Yeah,” Sam tells him, and smiles a little. “You totally are. But it’s cool. Just, I don’t know. Maybe you could start making jokes about my abs, or my really blue eyes, or my dick. Change it up a little.”

  
There’s that awesome floating feeling. His arms are all tingling, little pinpoints of energy running over his skin. Puck closes his eyes, because the bed under him feels really, really far away, dropping down, and maybe he could rise up, too, like bread in the oven or some badass bubbles. Oh, man,  _bread_. That sounds like the best idea. 

  
“I want bread,” he mumbles. “I wanna eat some bread right now. I wanna put hummus on it, lots of garlic. Dude, is that your hand?” 

  
Because there’s something on his thigh, and either it’s his imagination or Sam’s actually touching him, and he’s super warm, all this heat pushing through Puck’s jeans into his skin. Puck feels like he should be sort of surprised, or maybe angry or something, but he’s in this place right now where he’s way into saying hello to everything that happens.

  
“Hey,” Sam says, like he’s reading Puck’s mind, and leans over, kisses him. 

  
Sam totally uses lip balm. Puck freaking  _knew_  it. 

  
He sort of moves against Sam, looking for more of that heat. Sam’s Abercrombie hair falls in Puck’s face, but he doesn’t care, because Sam’s sucking on Puck’s lip and it’s been way, way too long since Puck got any, thanks to Lauren holding out on him. (Not that he’s all that pissed at Lauren, not really. It turns out Puck’s really into the whole teasing thing. But she’s got him all worked up, lately: tight like a guitar string that’s been tuned way too high.)

  
They make out for  _days_ , probably. 

  
Most of the time, Puck’s not into going all slow, but when he’s baked it’s like time stops moving and just sits in his body, makes him buzz like a little bit of voltage. Sam rubs the back of Puck’s neck, and then he’s moving that mouth of his, pulling at the skin of Puck’s jaw with his teeth. “Damn,” Puck whispers, only it’s all low and growly because he needs to clear his throat, and Sam answers with a little groan, pushing his hips against Puck. Shit, the guy’s hard, Puck can feel it. Shouldn’t this be freaking him out? This should be freaking him out. Why isn’t Sam freaking out?

  
That’s when Sam says into Puck’s neck, “I got an idea. Let’s call Mr. Schue. We got his number, right? Let’s call him. We should call him.”

  
Puck isn’t sure how the two things are related, the whole talking to Mr. Schue idea and the way Sam’s grinding into Puck right now, all into it, but okay, if he wants. Except Puck’s cell phone is really, really far away right now, over on the nightstand. It feels like two whole years away.

  
“You do it,” he mumbles, hooking his leg over Sam’s, wanting to get closer. “I’m busy.”

  
Sam rubs his cheek against Puck’s shoulder. “No, yeah, I’m gonna do it. In a second. This shirt is awesome, man. It’s so awesome. It’s soft.”

  
“My mom’s really good at laundry,” Puck informs him. 

  
Then they’re kissing again, and it’s all slow and wet, with lots and lots of hands in different places. Like an octopus, or maybe a super cool mutant. 

  
___

 

He forgets all about Schue until Sam pulls back, reaching into his pocket for his phone. Puck’s breathing heavy, and okay, he’ll admit it, he’s totally turned on right now, so the interruption’s kind of pissing him off. 

  
“You really gotta do that now?” he asks, swatting at Sam’s arm. “I was getting my mack on.”

  
“No, this is such a good idea.” Sam’s leaning on his elbow, scrolling through his contact list. “You don’t even get it, this is the best idea.”

  
When he presses the screen and waits a second, listening for the ring, Sam’s face brightens like he’s a freaking puppy or something, all stoked to go run around in the park. Puck half expects him to start panting. But then Sam’s holding the phone up to Puck’s ear, and Puck’s startled; says, “Wait, what – ?” 

  
“Just say hi to him,” Sam tells Puck, scooting closer. “It’s really easy.”

  
“Hello?” It’s Mr. Schue’s voice. He sounds curious, and Puck’s just aware enough to think that he sounds like a guy who doesn’t get a lot of phone calls. It makes him feel kind of bad. Mr. Schue deserves better than that. “Who’s this?”

  
“Hey. Hey, Mr. Schue. Oh, man, you’re the best, Mr. Schue.” Someone should definitely tell Schue how awesome he is. The name feels weird in his mouth, though, like too many cotton balls. “I am so freaking sorry about that drunk dial thing. That was. Man. When Ms. Sylvester played that message? And everyone heard it? That was cold as shit.”

  
Sam’s giggling, actually  _giggling_  like he’s a little girl. He pushes himself up on the bed, sitting with his back against the wall. “Shit isn’t cold, though,” he chokes, stretching out his legs. “It’s hot. At least it’s hot when it comes out. What if – what if you put it in the fridge, though. That’d be so gross.”

  
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and then Mr. Schue says, “Puck? Is that you? Is someone with you? I can hear someone talking. Are you, uh, under the influence right now?”

  
“Mr. Schue, I signed a waiver,” Puck tells him, indignantly, sitting up. “I  _promised_. The Puckster doesn’t go back on his promises, unless he wants to get some ass.”

  
“I’m not stupid, Puck. What are you on? Oxy? Some sort of downer? Look, if you’re somewhere, and you need me to come get you, take you home, I can do that. But I won’t sit here and listen to you when you’re like this.”

  
That’s when Sam grabs his hand, and before Puck knows it, he’s got a fistful of hard dick underneath his fingers, thick even through Sam’s jeans. Sam pushes Puck’s hand down, grinding it against his junk, and makes this moaning sound like it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him. Which, considering that it’s Puck’s hand, means it probably is.

  
He’s aware that Mr. Schue’s saying his name, asking him if he’s okay. Puck answers something like  _yes_ , or maybe _fuck yes_  or maybe it’s even  _holy fuck yes awesome_  and Sam’s huge mouth is like eighty-five percent of everything he can see and the phone falls out of Sam’s hand, hitting the bed between them.

  
Even though he’s the one cupping Sam’s dick through his pants, it’s Sam who opens up Puck’s jeans first, pulling him out. “Look at you,” Sam says, kind of loudly. Puck wants to tell him to keep his voice down, his mom’s downstairs, but then Sam adds, hoarsely, “That dick of yours is just begging to get sucked,” and Puck’s mind goes completely blank. 

  
“Shit,” he says, because who would’ve thought Sam Evans had  _that_  in him? Nerds aren’t supposed to be able to talk dirty, especially not nerds like Sam, all sunny and easy-going. It’s hot, though. Insanely hot. 

  
“I’ll do it for you.” Sam pushes his hair out of his eyes with his free hand, strokes Puck’s dick with the other. It’s a long drag down the shaft, nothing fast, but Puck feels every tiny movement of it. “You’ve been asking for it since I first met you, man, so don’t tell me you don’t want it. My pretty mouth wrapped around  _this_.” 

  
Well, sure, he’s wondered about Sam’s blowjob skills, but Puck thinks that’s normal, when you’re looking at a mouth big enough to hold at least eleven or twelve of those big marshmallows. (Puck’s mouth holds about seven or eight, the last time he checked.) Asking for it, though? He doesn’t think he’s been asking for anything lately, except for access to Lauren’s bangin’ body; that’s been his full-time job these last few weeks. Maybe he’d stared kinda hard at Sam during that first Bieber performance, but they’d  _all_  been staring, and it’s not like admiring a dude’s dance moves is the same thing as wanting him to suck your cock. He’s pretty sure about that.

  
Puck’s sort of drifting off, lost in his head and in the feel of Sam’s fist pulling at him, hips rocking up, back, up, back in a slow rhythm. “That feels –“ he mumbles. “Feels real nice.”

  
“Yeah?” Sam asks, unzipping his own jeans, and Puck gets the hint; reaches inside for Sam’s dick. Never let it be said that Noah Puckerman doesn’t give back as good as he gets. He’s generous like that. “Yeah – oh, yeah, Puck, harder, do it  _harder_. Like that – ”

  
Is it just him, or is Sam’s voice way too loud? It’s probably just him. He’s still pretty lit. Things get  _more_  when you’re like this. All intense, high volume. Whatever. It’s not a big deal. It’s a bigger deal that he’s got some other guy’s dick in his hand. It’s the biggest deal that it’s turning him on like crazy: feeling Sam pulse like that against Puck’s palm, the tip of him wet and seeping. Any minute now, he’s probably gonna start freaking out about it. 

  
And then Sam’s leaning down, tongue peeking out of his mouth like he can’t wait to taste Puck’s stuff (the thought makes Puck groan out loud), taking Puck’s dick between those pink lips of his, oh shit, oh  _shit_. Maybe it feels this good because he’s loaded, or maybe Sam just knows how to give a really good blowjob, but either way, this is pretty much the greatest thing since Optimus Prime destroyed Megatron and The Fallen. 

  
Right now he’s all cock. It’s the weirdest thing, like the only part of him alive and in the room is inside Sam’s mouth, the walls of his mouth waving wet around Puck. He tries to remember to move his hand, get some sort of rhythm going for Sam, but the noises Sam’s making around Puck’s dick are crazy distracting. Sam sounds like he’s choking, but also like he doesn’t care, he’s so into it. 

  
 _I’m fucking his mouth_ , Puck thinks,  _I’m fucking Sam Evans’s mouth_ , and that’s what does it for him. He gasps, says, “Oh, man, I can’t –“ and comes hard, thrusting again and again against Sam’s face. What’s amazing is that Sam just  _takes_  it, fists at Puck’s jeans, pulling him in, and when Puck finally pulls back, panting, he watches Sam lift his head and swallow. He actually swallows. That’s some real commitment. Puck’s kind of impressed.

  
Sam’s the color of borscht, or close to it. It looks weird, all that red next to his bright hair. Too much color, too intense. He leans back, hand drifting to his straining cock. “My turn,” he tells Puck, and Puck’s about to reach for Sam again when something catches his eye. Sam’s phone, still resting on the bedspread between them, face up. 

  
“Wait a minute,” he says, not sure what he’s seeing, and picks up the phone, staring at the screen.  _8:42_ , it tells him, ticking up the seconds.  _8:43. 8:44. 8:45_. And above that, the caller ID entry, unmistakable and bold.

  
“Mr. Schue?” 

  
There’s a strangled sound out of the speaker, and then the CALL ENDED icon flashes, once. 

  
Puck looks at Sam, startled, but Sam doesn’t look back. Eyes wide, fixed on the phone in Puck’s hand, he pumps his dick once, twice, and comes with a grunt: thin shots of white tracking over his fist. 

  
“Um,” Puck says, maybe out loud, or it might be in his head. “What the  _fuck_.”

  
Something’s just happened here, he knows that much, but anything more is beyond him right now. Puck watches Sam breathe, all fast and high, chest climbing and falling, and tries to think. It’s not working real well. He's scrunching his eyes with the effort, and the skin around them feels really stretched and warm. 

  
Turns out the tissue box on the floor is empty, but Sam accepts the sock Puck pulls out from under the bed with a little shrug of thanks. It’s a pretty thick gym sock. Puck’s used it for cleanup before, in a pinch. (It’s been washed since then, though. Almost definitely.)

  
“I think he  _heard_  us. I mean, I think he was listening or something.”

  
Sam looks like he’s trying not to grin. He’s terrible at it. 

  
“Yeah,” he says, wiping at his hand. That big mouth of his gives up, curving, lips pink and wide. “Yeah, I think he did.”

  
Oh _. Oh_. 

  
Because now Puck’s remembering Sam’s reaction when Mr. Schue’d handed out his cell number to all of them: that bizarre excited _yes_. He’d teased Santana about it later, asked her if her boyfriend was gonna try for a threesome with Schue. “Awesome idea, Kid Vicious,” she’d said, approvingly. “I'm gonna get right on that. Let me know if you want a trip report.” He knows Santana, and she wasn't joking. Not completely.

  
Maybe, though – Puck’s starting to realizing this – he just got there first. Sort of. Damn, Santana’s gonna be so freaking  _pissed_ when she finds out what happened. He can’t wait to see the amazing face she’ll make.

  
Puck flops back down on the bed, not bothering to zip up his jeans. Whatever. He’s not going anywhere. He’s gonna listen to the rest of this album, wait for the last track, enjoy Sam lying there next to him all happy and blissed out. That  _smile_  of his, shit. Puck would never say it out loud, ever, but it makes him want to smile back at him. Like, a lot. And for a long time.

  
“Told you it’d be worth it, dude,” he says, and Sam laughs, throws the dirty sock at Puck’s face. It’s disgusting. Sam’s seriously lucky Puck doesn’t feel like moving right now. 

  
The weird thing, though, is that Puck kinda feels a little lucky, too. Maybe later, when he isn’t loaded, he’ll try and figure out why.


End file.
